Valentine's Day
by huan yue
Summary: Youji has some extravagant plans for a hot date but somehow Aya fouls them up with a bit of shocking news. Shounen ai. Youji x Aya. Status: COMPLETED. [Note: Minor reediting, mostly in chapter organization.]
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own Weiss, I just like to play with them once in a while. My work is always pro bono.

I strike a match and inhale the familiar scent of burning sulphur. I always liked that smell. It reminds me of my mother. She used to smoke Gauloises. The cigarette always looked so refined the way she held it between her perfectly manicured nails. They were never painted anything bright or too eye catching. They were often a delicate shade of beige, sometimes pink, sometimes the tips were a soft white but rarely.

Aya disapproves. I can tell by the look on his face. I reach for the ashtray and slide it closer to me and further away from him. It's about all I can do to placate him. I'm not putting it out.

It's Friday, it's Valentine's Day, and it's around 8 pm. We're in an expensive French restaurant. It's the sort of place where everyone speaks in hushed whispers, gloating about the various events they've recently attended, droning on with empty headed thoughts on art and music, fervently gossiping about each other at every chance they get. The style of the place is unsurprisingly minimalist. Everything is white from the furniture to the tablecloths and the only contrast is in the waiters' black uniforms. The food is served on excessively large porcelain china, poised in various sculptures.

I look fabulous, as always, but unlike myself. I decided to go with something a little simpler. I knew my date liked chic restaurants and my usually outlandish look just wouldn't be right. For fun I bought a black Armani suit with a matching dress shirt. And just to be festive, I went with a crimson tie. I know it sounds horrendously dull but it's all in how you wear it. It's the cut of the suit, not the colour, that counts and I had this tailored to fit my every curve.

Aya doesn't fit in and this amuses me in my own devious little way. He's always so composed, so much better than the rest of us. My ego can't help but relish in his awkward fidgeting or the way his garish orange sweater is receiving many disgusted glances. This is probably my only delight in an otherwise ruined evening.

Aya runs a hand through his matted red hair and huffs uncomfortably.

I take a long haul on my cigarette and wonder how we got here.


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Weiss, I just like to play with them once in a while. My work is always pro bono.

My watch tells me it's 6:57 pm and as if she read my mind Yuri makes her breathtaking entrance. I'm standing in the hall of La Rose Obscure leaning against the marbled wall. I'm smoking. Not because of any craving but because it completes my look. I pull my sunglasses down to the edge of my nose and peer over them to get a better look at her.

Gorgeous.

She has a swan-like neck, long and pale. Her shoulders are broad but small. She has the posture of a dancer but without looking too rigid. Her jet-black hair is spilling down from a long, sleek ponytail. Her lips are pouty with just the right amount of pampered pretentiousness in her smile. Her eyebrows have a perfect arch. Her nose is thin. She is wearing a black cocktail dress that falls just below the knees. Let it be said that there is nothing dull or typical about the little black dress. Personally, I like to think of myself as its biggest fan.

I ran into her on a reconnaissance mission. Nothing too serious, just scoping the place out. While it's the general policy – especially in my profession – not to mix business with pleasure, I like to make a point of it, especially when the pleasure is with someone who looks like Yuri.

I gently take her hand and with my most charming smile whisper, "Happy Valentine's Day."

My lips gently brush the soft skin on her knuckles and inside her palm is where I place her gift. She pauses, feigning surprise as she feels the cool sensation of metal prickling her. When she looks at what she received, her eyes widen.

"Youji…" She gasps.

I pull her closer by wrapping my other arm around her trim waist, "Let me put it on you."

The moment is like something out of a bad commercial for a jewellery store. I got her a very elegant looking diamond choker. There was something about her neck that made me really want to adorn it. I think I outdid myself this time. Before I know it her lips are on mine. She smells like a mixture of vanilla and menthol cigarettes and it's utterly delicious. She's soft and pliant underneath me. I pull her further into an adjacent hall for some privacy. My tongue runs along the inside of her lower lip, politely asking for more. She's hesitant but skilled. I know it's a game and it arouses me just like she wants.

"We should eat…" I chuckle softly into her neck.

She leans her head back and I can hear the smile in her voice, "It can wait, can't it?" 

"We made reservations for seven." I gently kiss that small space behind her ear and I can feel her silver hoop earring cold on my cheek.

"Kudou." It's not a recognition but a command and the sound of Aya's voice makes me stiffen instantly.

I ease away from Yuri but maintain my hold over her waist. With an exasperated sigh I say, "What is it Fujimiya? And how did you know where I am?"

He folds his arms over his chest, a familiar scowl tarnishing his sculpted features, "You're easier to find than you think. I need to talk to you."

My brows furrow. I'm definitely annoyed. Yuri's eyes nervously dart from me to Aya, obviously concerned that the date might be cancelled by some random emergency. "Can't it wait?"

"No."

I walk over to him, leaving just enough space between Yuri and us so that she can't hear our conversation. I whisper heatedly, "You _do_ realize this is Valentine's Day and that I have been planning this for weeks, right?"

For once he looks vaguely uncertain and he shuffles from one foot to the other before responding, "I apologize for the inconvenience but it can't be helped."

My face darkens, "It's not a mission, is it? Because I would fucking _hate_ that on today of all days!"

"No. It's not a mission."

"Then it's something Kritiker related?"

"No."

"Schwartz?"

"No."

"Did someone die then? Because nothing else is worth calling off this date."

He pauses briefly only to once again say, "No."

I plant my hands on my hips and tap my foot as if that would convince Aya to leave me alone, "So what is it? I have reservations for seven and it's already quarter past."

Something indiscernible flashes in his eyes and I find myself unable to say no when he insists on talking to me. How this one man has so much power over me is beyond my comprehension. Yuri is infuriated and I get the feeling I won't be hearing from her again. As she storms off all I can think is that she's even hotter when she's mad.

"You hungry?" I grumble.

He shrugs, which stinks of his typical stubbornness.

"Well, I still have my reservation," I sigh.

And that's how we got here. I haven't really bothered to ask to him elaborate. I know that he will only talk at his own obstinate pace. There's a part of me that's actually curious about what's so important for someone as unnoticeable as Fujimiya to actually step out and request something. This is highly unusual and unusual things intrigue me.

That's why I went after Yuri. I inwardly sigh at the memory.

"I'm sorry for any trouble I may have caused you…" his voice trails off as he stares into his glass of water. He's in one of the most trendy gourmet restaurants in Shibuya and of course he orders only water and a house salad. He insults my wallet.

"Will you please stop saying that?" I pick at my rice flaked foie gras and crispy quail. I'm beginning to lose interest. "We're here now, you might as well tell me what's going on."

He looks up at me and a part of me is stunned by the look on his face. The most animated I've ever seen Aya is when the name 'Takatori' comes up and it is certainly not pretty. In fact, I find myself quite weary of our self-imposed leader. I've never known what to make of him, other than the fact that I can completely forget that he's in the room until he barks at another customer to buy something or leave. I find him always straining politeness under thinly veiled impatience. I like to see him ill at ease, even fail at times. You may think that's wrong of me but it's the truth.

Yet the way he's looking at me now is from a side of him I am unfamiliar with. His expression has softened somewhat. He seems troubled and full of uncertainty. Something tells me that how I react to whatever he says will have a profound effect on him. I'm curious and full of anticipation for what he's going to say.

"What if I told you I knew something that is consistently putting Weiss in unnecessary danger?" His face is pale. His voice is quiet.

I lean closer to him, feeling an overwhelming sense of uncertainty, "What do you mean?" 

He fidgets with his white cotton napkin. I can't tell how much time passes before he responds and I decide not to push him either. There's a fragility to this moment that I can't quite describe. Somehow I instinctively know what's coming but am still unprepared for it when he tells me. The shock of it initially amuses me. It's just so laughably ridiculous, so utterly impossible it takes everything in me to bite back the words "you're joking!" Once it gradually sinks in, I'm in the restaurant alone with a full ashtray and an empty espresso cup, a swirl of brown sludge caked on the bottom.

After that conversation I don't quite know what to do with myself so I'm hitting the rain-slicked streets of Roppongi, garish neon signs illuminating the path to my regular hot spots. Tonight I have a renewed thirst for debauchery. I eye a few strip joints, a couple of trendy bars but instead step into an old favourite. The entrance is a barely noticeable rusty iron staircase that resembles a defunct fire exit with a grime coated metal front door. I enter into a haze of smoke, the stench of alcohol weighing down the air.

The bartender is an old friend. His lips hide underneath a wispy moustache, the hair on the crown of his head is starting to thin. He blinks a few times in disbelief behind a pair of black, thick-rimmed glasses and breaks out into a huge grin when he recognizes me, "Youji! Long time no see."

My lips curve into a half smile as I take a seat on a tattered leather barstool, "Hey there Tanaka, how's it going?"

"Not bad. What'll it be? The usual?"

"Damn straight and keep 'em coming."

Before I get my coat off, there's a vodka on ice in front of me. I contemplate just getting a bottle and drinking myself into oblivion but I can't quite bring myself to do it. As much as I loathe the idea, I realize I need to think. I'm grateful that I don't need to make small talk since Tanaka is entertaining a few people – a group of middle aged salary men in dull, ill-fitting black suits and starched white shirts, probably all wearing their "Friday" tie and their "Friday" briefs, skulking away from their wives and children to escape into a glass of scotch. It's a depressing sight that suits my mood fine. Sometimes I ache for the simplicity, the monotony of their lives.

The exact words escape me but small details of my conversation with Aya come back with an alarming lucidity. The dark circles underneath his unnaturally light eyes; the fraying cuffs of an orange sweater; thin white fingers drumming nervously on an immaculate table cloth; the scent of flowers and something else, something vaguely like antiseptic, like a hospital; cold coffee; the aftertaste of too many cigarettes.

I was alarmed by two things after that conversation. One being Aya's most artful skill at concealing his emotions. I pride myself on my ability to read people, it's what allows me to so audaciously take advantage of others. Yet Aya was able to keep this from me, for how long I don't know. It's no secret that I like to bed both sexes, that I enjoy the taste of a man as much as that of a woman. I don't think Aya would have come forward had he not known that. Of course the second thing that alarmed me is the fact that of all people, of all the ludicrous situations I've run into, nothing seems less believable than the fact that Fujimiya Aya, Abysinnian, the leader of Weiss and stoic assassin extraordinaire is in love with me, Kudou Youji.

I knock down my fifth glass, cold ice hitting my hot, wet mouth. I grimace as I feel the burn ease down my oesophagus. I'm almost at that point where the alcohol goes down like water, teetering on that dangerous point where I can just keep going until I'm a useless heap on the floor. I have an urge to talk to Aya, to make sense of this. I clumsily light a smoke. The toxins almost instantly calm me and the fact that I'm opening shop tomorrow with the redhead is just a distant abstraction.


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own Weiss, I just like to play with them once in a while. My work is always pro bono.

I wake up to David Bowie. Cold morning sunlight slices through dusty venetian blinds casting striped shadows across my feather duvet. I shut the radio off and will myself out of bed. I bite back last night's half-eaten dinner as the room tilts in all manner of directions and shuffle into the shower. I start cold but soon enough the bathroom's filled with steam. I brush my teeth, run mousse-coated fingers through dampened hair. It's only when I'm fully dressed, casting one last bleary-eyed glance around my disheveled room, that it occurs to me who I'm working with today.

Two weeks ago, I was enjoying a post-mission cigarette to calm the nerves. My hands were steady but that just comes with practice. I went through the motions as if I were doing stockroom inventory. It couldn't have felt more routine. It's only now that I'm beginning to wonder why Aya decided to cover me, leaving Omi to his own devices, sitting cross-legged in a tangle of wires and laptops, his back potentially vulnerable to the Hanabusa-Eikiguchi Pharmaceutical Company's security. As I make my way to the shop, I light up my morning smoke. This time my hands are slightly shaky. I blame it on the hangover.

To be perfectly honest, I don't really like Aya and this dislike is increasing as I watch him, once again, create the perfect flower arrangement. I take a sip of my scalding black coffee and study his graceful fingers as they dart back and forth with a tiny pair of shears, working furiously to get the morning's order out. Desperate for small talk, I pick up the order book and ask, "When's this one due? I'll get the box."

"8:45," His voice is so excruciatingly smooth. Like butter wouldn't melt.

I half nod, not sure if I should say anything more and duck into the back room wondering what else I can do here so I don't have to go back. The tension in the store is unbearably thick. The morning rush doesn't usually start until 9:30. I sigh heavily and fold the box. He's quiet for the next little while, content to prepare more arrangements. I sit back on a stool by the cash and put my booted feet up on the counter. I close my eyes, ready to take a quick nap. But before I completely sink into the fog of sleep, I can feel his eyes on me. He doesn't have to say anything; I know right away that I'm not supposed to put my feet on the counter. I refuse to move. Besides, he owes me.

About fifteen minutes later and I'm half-dreaming about nothing in particular, he finally has to say something. "Watch your feet."

I half open my eyes and glance at designer steel toes, give a satisfactory nod since I am evidently doing as I am told and promptly return to my nap's sweet embrace.

"Youji."

He's usually more patient.

I reach for my coffee and take a sip. Boots still on the counter. I'm in the mood to ruffle some Abyssinian feathers this fine morning. It becomes a cold war – will Aya have to ask me (the horror!) to move again? Or shall I behave? We'll never know because the person for the 8:45 order steps in to the sound of a door chime.

I sit up and give her a pleasant, "Good morning!"

She has nothing on Yuri. Lacks her statuesque facial features, the poise. She seems about my age, maybe a little older with lots of brown curly hair. She's in a cute trench coat, though, with a pair of red pumps and I give her my most charming smile. She blushes a little, leans in a little too close. Aya stands to the side as I present her with his arrangement.

"It's perfect!" She beams.

I guide her over to the cash and we make small talk. The entire time I can feel Aya watching me, that is until he steps into the back for whatever reason. My guess is jealousy and while Fujimiya-san really pisses me off sometimes, this isn't exactly what I want. Irritating him over a pair of boots is one thing but I'm not this cold. Not when everything is so fresh and confusing and so utterly complicated. I try to make the transaction quick but she lingers for a while. I tape the box shut and wave her out the door, feeling relief as the staccato click, click, click of heels on wet concrete fades away.

I step into the back, looking for Aya. He's sitting on the worn sofa with a cup of tea and a pile of papers in front of him, likely mission-related stuff. I take a deep breath and sit on a chair across from him. He doesn't bother to look up.

"Thought she'd never leave," I try to sound lighthearted, like we talk like this all the time.

"Why would she, with you draped all over he like that?" He still doesn't look up at me but instead makes a quick note on a black and white photograph of what looks like a slightly overweight salary man leaving a building, eyes hiding behind a pair of sunglasses. I suddenly wish for the comfort of mine.

"Okay, so maybe next time I'll be really rude to the customers so they don't bother to come back."

"The Koneko's just a front anyway."

"You're not the one to be talking about 'fronts'". At this, he finally looks at me but it's only momentary. At the very least, though, he doesn't go back to his work. I hesitantly continue, "I don't really know what to do about this either. It's just not… well, I mean I never would have thought this would happen. I mean, maybe I could see this happening with Ken but I'm pretty sure Ken doesn't swing that way."

"I don't need this." Is all he bothers to say and he goes back to the front of the store.

"You don't need this? You! I don't need this, Aya," I rush after him. "Look, this is just as awkward for me as it is for you. I don't even know what to make of you half the time and then you ruin my plans only to lay this insane confession on me…!"

After my shouting the room is eerily quiet. Aya takes his time to respond and before he does I finally take a good, solid look at him – at his long nose, his perfectly oval face, that fringe of red only making his features seem that much sharper, the same orange sweater, the same dark jeans, worn out running shoes and tight lips. I realize I've never really bothered to look at him before and beneath that hideous outfit and the impenetrable scowl lies something far deeper than I originally gave him credit for.

"I don't know why I said what I did either," the tone of his voice is measured, as if he is weighing each word carefully before uttering them, "but I had to. Youji, you're so self-involved and it was becoming too much for me. It doesn't matter anymore. I said what I had to say and I expect nothing from you. I'm going to get some change for the cash."

He leaves. Stricken, I slump back onto my stool and look into the cash drawer. It's full.


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own Weiss, I just like to play with them once in a while. My work is always pro bono.

Author's note at the end of the chapter.

"I didn't want to have to do this but it's about the team. All I ask, Youji, is that you stay away from me. I don't know why this, of all things, had to happen but it's better if it's dealt with swiftly. We work together almost every day and for some reason, we're most often teamed together during our missions. Distance will be the best solution."

He said everything and nothing at the same time. He never quite brought himself to use words of affection, words that genuinely denote what he was trying to get at. That's Aya for you. In the past few days, I often replay that conversation from La Rose Obscure, like some syndicated TV drama.

"Youji!"

I realize with a bit of a start that the redhead I'm sitting with isn't the sullen Weiss leader. Blue lasers illuminate the dark room, rising and falling, flashing, changing direction to the thundering beat that's pounding through me. I uncross my leather-clad legs and sit back. I move to take a sip of my vodka on the rocks, only to realize that there's only a bit of melted ice left in the glass. I wasn't thirsty anyway, it was more of a nervous jolt to further procrastinate talking to this girl. Somehow she knows my name when for the life of me I can't remember hers.

"Youji, I said we should get out of here," She leans in close, stinks of tropical shampoo and too much perfume. I can feel her hot, alcohol-tinged breath on my cheeks.

"Don't you want to stay and dance? I'll get you another drink," I smile charmingly, find myself even pulling back a little. Her vermilion locks don't look right. The style is too short. It doesn't fall at the right angle. I take in her garish makeup, the sheer lace top. A flash of electric blue lingerie flashes underneath her skirt between her legs as she ventures to kiss me behind the ear. I don't bother fighting her off. Before I can stop it or even begin to think about it, we're in my car. Slender fingers with blue lacquered nails are winding their way up my shirt. I try to focus on the road as she flicks one of my nipples.

We don't bother with pretenses, no offers of coffee behind coy smiles. In fact, we barely make it into her gaudy, studio apartment before I'm swiftly unclasping her bra strap, a growing erection pressing against her thigh. She emits little sighs of pleasure, some of which sound like a fake attempt to entice me. I'm trying to drown them out – drown everything out – the way her lips are too soft, her nose too wide, the exaggerated curve of her hip and her two fleshy breasts as they push up on me. I pull her bright blue thong down her legs, passed dimpled knees and then small round toes. I pause at her ankles and gradually make my way up but instead of smooth skin, I imagine them marred with an assassin's scars.

I push deep inside of her, perhaps a bit too quickly, a bit too forcefully. I don't pause for the niceties, I just close my eyes and think of someone else. I try to imagine what it would be like to see his elegant features contort, tiny beads of sweat forming across his forehead. I wonder what he smells like, tastes like, how experienced he is. I wonder how it would be to force myself on him, to see him beneath me, helpless to my ministrations. It's at this last thought that I feel the onslaught of orgasm and collapse helplessly onto the sweaty heap beneath me. She's writhing, moaning, clawing into my back but as reality sets in I'm disgusted, mostly with myself.

A few hours later, I park haphazardly outside the Koneko, half of Seven's tires are on the sidewalk. I stumble out of the lopsided car with a half-drunk bottle of Smirnoff spilling onto my leather boots. I mumble a few swear words to myself and look up at the closed shutters in a daze. My bare skin feels hot against the cool, early morning air. I take another gulp from the bottle. It goes down like water. I decide it's time Aya and I have a small chat.

I knock heavily on his door. Without even noticing, I throw my whole weight into it and start slurring his name repeatedly until he swings it open so quickly I trip onto him. I drape lanky arms around his thin shoulders and lean back just enough to look at his face. "Aya…" I can tell I have a sloppy grin on my lips but I try to hold it back, to look stern, "You… I mean me… I mean… well, I wanna talk to you."

He pushes me back forcefully and I slam into his bedroom wall. "Go to bed." He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't have to. Somehow this is worse.

"I just wanted to apologize about this morning…" I take a small, unsteady step towards him.

He starts pushing me out of his apartment. I try to fight back but all I can muster over my shoulder is a hasty, "but Aya!" before he slams the door in my face. I slump down onto the floor and sigh heavily. It's only a few hours later, as I wake up in a puddle of my own drool staring at Aya's immaculately clean socks, that I begin to take in the damage.

Author's note: thank you all for your reviews. They are most encouraging! Particularly Caval, at one point I was considering abandoning this fic with all its flaws and clichés and your review made me see it in such a better light I just had to continue. Quick response to AeryonSun, after rereading everything, I realize that this fic could almost work with no chapters, as one solid story. Part of the reason why the chapters are so short is I think it sort of goes with the quick rhythm of the story. I think it can work as either a bunch of short chapters or all in one – probably better as the latter but it's too late, I think, to go back on that now. Actually, I have now re-edited the story and I much prefer the chapter organization now.


	5. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own Weiss, I just like to play with them once in a while. My work is always pro bono.

Author's note is at the end of the chapter.

_Aya._

There's something about proximity, living in close quarters with someone and knowing their peculiar habits. I know the strangest, most minute details about Youji. Utterly ridiculous things. Like, the fact that he enjoys black coffee, the coarser the better, with three-quarters of a sugar packet. I know that he's the type of person to eat his favourite thing on the plate first and then sullenly pick at the leftovers until he loses interest. He doesn't often read but I found a dog eared copy of Nabokov's _Invitation to a Beheading_ lying around at the chalet, with a hastily scrawled note on the inside cover signed, Asuka. I know what kind of sheets he sleeps in, dressed his wounds, seen habits and interests come and go like paramours in the night. He's cocky as hell but after a nightmare sleeps downstairs in the glow of the TV for the company. I can tell when he's really sad, even if he's laughing. He hates tomatoes but loves spaghetti.

It isn't until a while ago, when he got shot during a mission that I begin to realize the tragedy of possibly never seeing that stale cup of coffee by the cash at the Koneko or his completely unnecessary array of salon hair products cluttering the bathroom. I don't know why. Perhaps it just became a part of the routine, the peripheral landscape I have grown accustomed to. We are complete opposites in the most uncomplimentary way. Our worlds are paralleled – they never meet. But at the same time, he is probably the only Weiss member I can truly identify with.

The problem really begins after that mission. The injury was negligible and Youji thoroughly enjoyed the downtime, bandaged leg up on the coffee table and all the ice cream he could eat. He was like a kid whose tonsils just came out with mother Omi at his beck and call. I didn't really check up on him myself but Ken offered daily reports. Occasionally I'd run into him if I'd dare venture into the living room and finally, after a week and a half of one-word conversations, I apologized for not being there to protect him. He shrugged it off and thanked me for the vacation. That's Youji for you.

It's close to 8 a.m. and I discover a passed out Youji in a crumpled heap outside my bedroom door. I have no idea what to do with him. The man's impossible. Excruciatingly arrogant. I crouch down next to him and narrow my eyes. I can't tell who is more pathetic. I drag him up off the floor and he unsteadily gets to his feet. He gives me the most sheepish of glances.

"Aya, I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me," He rubs the back of his head and I'm amazed to see, for the first time, Kudou Youji awkward.

"It's nothing new." I try to remain expressionless as always and by the judge of the look on his face I've succeeded. He hides behind decadence while I hide behind someone else's name, a fake identity carved for the sole purpose of self-preservation.

He sighs, "I need coffee," and starts making his way downstairs still dressed in last night's clothes. I stand in the doorway and am about to go back inside when he stops and turns around. "You coming?"

I hesitate. I'm still irritated by the fact that he had the gall to get shitfaced and then wake up the entire neighbourhood.

"No," I shrug and turn to go back into my room when I feel the weight of his hand on my shoulder.

"It wasn't meant as a question." He has an uncharacteristically serious look on his face and I begin to feel the regret for confiding to him resurface, as it has done repeatedly over the past two days.

I don't normally drink coffee but it seemed easier to accept the steaming mug than say no as Youji hands it to me. The situation has an oddly surreal quality to it, and I suddenly feel a familiar ache returning in the pit of my stomach. I don't know why I told Youji what I did. I suppose even I have my limits. I was alone that night. I had just left the antiseptic-green walls and glossy linoleum floors of the hospital. The faint echo of my sister's heart monitor was ringing in my ears and it suddenly seemed better to lose it all than taste the bitterness of being on my own. That night I decided I would rather hit rock bottom than live in the monotone agony of this every day routine.

Youji's baritone drawl interrupts my thoughts, "Look, Aya, I know I can be an egotistical asshole most of the time and I certainly fit the role last night and maybe the night before but I'm sorry. I didn't really think about what you told me until afterward. I didn't really get it. I still don't. Not entirely."

I look away and opt to stare at the cat-shaped clock on the far end of the wall; its paws awkwardly contorting to indicate the time. I can feel Youji staring at me as I softly reply, "Then what would you rather have me say?"

He drags his chair closer across the black and white vinyl floor and leans in close enough that I can feel his arm brush against mine, "I don't know. Why don't you get past that hardened shell and express some feeling for once?"

I glace at him, at his unruly brown hair, the black smudges under his grey-green eyes, the unnaturally serious expression on his angular face. I think, never be this way. Never be serious. You're better when you're not serious.

He raises his eyebrows and briefly looks taken aback. He says, "I always thought you hated the fact that I'm always messing around."

I swallow thickly and realize I said what I was thinking out loud. I'm getting careless. A low flush rises to my cheeks but I don't think it's too noticeable, "I don't know why I said that."

He replies, in his most disarming way, "I like that you said that." After a long pause he continues, "Tell me why."

"Why what?"

"Why you told me what you did. Why you interrupted my date with Yuri. Why you didn't skewer me with your katana when I went charging to your room last night."

I stay silent for a while, turning over a number of thoughts in my mind. I can barely make sense of it myself. "What's the point in sleeping with all those people?"

He rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his coffee, "Leave it to you to answer a question with a question." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a rumpled pack of cigarettes and a silver zippo. He slides one out and lights it up, inhales with a look of almost gratefulness of his face and then turns back to me, "I fuck around for the same reasons you keep to yourself. You like to hide from reality by being alone. I like to hide with company."

I wrinkle my nose at the long curl of white, acrid smoke. He gives me a typically Youji look in response and takes another drag. I start absentmindedly playing with a spoon on the kitchen table. I fail to understand why someone who is so utterly irritating has this effect on me. I initially blamed proximity but it's more than that.

"You still haven't answered my questions," He leans his chair back on its two hind legs.

I quickly point out, "You'll ruin the floor."

"Aya," he sighs, "have you ever taken a look at this kitchen? Look at it! Underneath the peeling yellow paint and ancient appliances, I doubt a few scuffs on this hideous floor will be at all noticeable."

"Maybe that's why I interrupted your date."

His chair falls back onto its four feet and he leans in close again, "What do you mean?"

"Underneath everything, I didn't think a few scuffs would be noticeable," I search for words to explain what I want to say. I stall by drinking more coffee. I hate coffee. "Youji, look. What happened that night won't happen again. I…" Words fail me. I can't bring myself to say it. He's looking at me so expectantly but it's too much of a risk. Maybe in another life, under another name I could tell him how I feel. I've spent too long putting these walls up. They may have faltered that night but I'm trying to reinforce them now.

He draws himself even closer, so close that I can faintly smell last night's drinking binge on his breath, in his clothes. I wonder if he's feeling hung over.

"What would you do if I kissed you?"

My shoulders stiffen and my brows furrow in confusion, "Are you still drunk?"

He's only a few inches from me now, "Have you ever been kissed before?"

I try to smooth my expression into one of complete disgust but I can immediately feel the betrayal of my burning cheeks. I want to get up and leave or grab him in a chokehold but instead the hold is on me.

His voice takes on an entirely different tone. It's soft and teasing all at the same time, "I'll take that as a 'no', A-yan?"

I finally manage to pull myself back together as anger gradually swells inside me. I harden my gaze at him and spit, "Don't mock me."

He falters slightly but continues nonetheless, "I'm not."

"I don't believe you," I start to stand up but he's too quick for me. Before I completely get to my feet, his lips engulf mine. We're both half-standing, his lanky frame practically crouching so his face is level with mine. I am initially stunned into complacency as a wiry arm wraps itself around my thin shoulders. His other hand cups my cheek. My lips don't exactly respond, I don't know what to do. I refuse to admit that this really is my first kiss.

I pull away but he still holds me there. I'm overwhelmed with conflict as I try to keep my voice even, "Don't, Kudou. Just don't."

"Why?" He has this plaintive look in his eyes. I hate it.

I push him back and this time he complies, "Because you'll get bored and we have the team to think of." I turn and start walking out of the kitchen.

"You can't tell me you didn't feel anything," he shouts after me, "because I could tell. You can lie to yourself all you want…" I am almost upstairs but I can still hear him yelling, "…but you can't lie to me!"

I slam my bedroom door behind me and lean back against it. I can still feel his lips on me as the back of my eyes burn with a feeling I had almost completely forgotten. I manage to compose myself before any tears fall.

AN: Before you ask me what the hell I'm thinking, I have to say I don't know. I'm half-tempted to rewrite this part but I really wanted to get Aya's thoughts out there and I didn't know how else to go about it. Overall, I think the story is progressing as planned; my only concern really is how Youji managed to bounce back so well after drinking so much the night before. It's a bit implausible but hey, we're talking about Youji here and I think if anyone can hold their liquor it's him. I find the hardest part about writing Weiss fan fiction is making Aya seem like himself but not like an asshole.

Question to you, the reader: is this switch of POV ok? Or shall I go back to the origins of the story and only talk from Youji's POV?


	6. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own Weiss, I just like to play with them once in a while. My work is always pro bono.

Author's note: This chapter would have been up earlier but my computer hates me and ate its original incarnation. But although you had to wait a bit longer for its release, the outcome is _way_ better than the first draft. I also have more good news – the fic is completed! So enjoy and thanks for all your reviews and encouragement. It really means a lot.

It's late, close to 3 a.m. and the constant rainfall has left me soaked. My hands are cold as I tightly grip my katana. My back is flush to the east wall of the Yamada Pharmaceutical Company and a relentless, searing pain heats up my left arm. My eyes dart through the darkness unseeingly, though I can feel the onslaught of security at my heels. It's already been confirmed that the rest of the team has met at the rendezvous point on time. I am the sole straggler. I eye the seven foot fence I'm about to scale and sigh. I can hear the echo of footsteps that will soon overtake me.

It was supposed to be a simple in and out job.

It's nothing new - a corrupt pharmaceutical company under the wing of the Takatori family decides that it would be far more cost effective to test new, experimental treatments on recovering heroin addicts. The plan worked for the simplest reason that these people are the forgotten, left to the streets, and any adverse sickness or disappearances went largely ignored. Ken wasn't quick to sympathize but the way they straddle that ambiguous line between right and wrong, lost and renewed, is far too like us for me to judge. Besides, it's a mission and I could do with the money.

At the sound of a gunshot I swiftly duck low and flank the side of the building, I can hear the blood ringing in my ears. I try to ignore the gaping gash in my arm as thick, crimson liquid starts to drip down my hand. I abruptly turn around and a quick head count tells me there are at least 6 of them, the darkness blinds me to anything beyond six feet. Knowing I can't outrun them and get over the fence before they shoot me to death, I raise my katana and rush forward.

Youji continually wailed from the onset that the mission's cursed – much to the disapproving glances of an irate Omi and Ken's weakening protests that there is no such thing as a curse. I opted instead to ignore him, still feeling the tension from our last encounter. "_You can't tell me you didn't feel anything… because I could tell_". But it became increasingly hard to disagree with the lanky assassin, since everything seemed to be going wrong. The building plans Kritiker had forwarded us were out of date and there had been a few key renovations since. The next issue was a major reinforcement in security. Then the fact that Omi's headset suddenly decided it was no longer working so he was unable to provide us with necessary tactical data on the movements of the guards. Worse yet – the target was not where we expected him to be.

That's why I'm here now, trying to gut the remaining forces that refuse to relent. A shorter, stockier man than I collapses to the ground, blood rising up his throat and dripping past his lips. I shake the sticky fluid off my katana and ready myself for the next to taste the cool metal of the blade. After I sent the rest of the team back, about forty-five minutes ago, I returned to the insides of the building in search of our target. Though my plan was successful, I've been injured in the process. I'm starting to feel weak and the exertion from slashing at the never ending cascade of guards is ripping my wound open further still. I know I'll need stitches, I just hope it's not infected.

A crushing blow is dealt to the side of my head. I'm too tired. I'm getting sloppy. I stumble forwards and feel another hit between my shoulder blades knocking the wind out of me. My knees scrape against the rough concrete and with my last vestiges of strength I swoop my katana around me and I feel the contact with flesh. I don't know if the hit was fatal or even that damaging. Blackness is starting to overtake me before I can assess anything other than the fact that I'm suddenly very cold. I shiver as a familiar voice calls out to me, "Abyssinian!"

I plant my left, bloodied hand on the ground to steady myself and force the nausea back down my throat. I fight to remain conscious as that same voice shouts my code name again, "Abyssinian!"

It's followed by a deep grunt and soon thereafter the sound of someone being strangled. I look up, suddenly remembering that I'm on a mission only to see Youji fending off the last of the security guards.

"Abyssinian! Are you able to head to the rendezvous point on your own?" Balinese punctuates the question with a fatal hit to one of Yamada's henchmen.

I nod weakly and attempt to stand up but the nausea and dizziness are too much for me and I have to return to my crouching position. I can't find the words to respond.

"Wait! Stay there, Abyssinian, I'll help you back in just a minute!"

A long trail of wire shoots out of Balinese's watch, only to loop around the last guard. It tightens around his jugular until it slices through in an ensanguined waterfall. Before the man hits the ground, Youji is at my side, helping me to my feet. It's increasingly difficult to keep my eyes open. I know almost my entire weight is on his shoulders as my feet begin to drag on the ground. My knees buckle underneath me.

"Hey, hey, hey… there Abyssinian. You gotta keep it together," His voice is soft and filled with worry.

He hitches me further up his shoulder. I wrap my arms around his waist and lean my head in that small space between his neck and his shoulder. I'm too tired to question the sudden wave of warmth I can feel within. We eventually get to Youji's Seven, parked a few blocks away from the building. I know Omi's fretting over me and Ken is asking hundreds of questions but Youji manages to stave them off and gets in the back seat with me. At the time, I fail to realize how unlike him it is to let Ken drive. For the moment, I continue to stay close to him as a seizure of shivers of overtakes me.


	7. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own Weiss, I just like to play with them once in a while. My work is always pro bono.

For a brief moment everything is peaceful. The pain in my arm does not immediately register, nor does the migraine or the searing ache in my throat. No, for about twenty seconds, I am completely at peace in the soft cocoon of my bed. But as I begin to work my way through the fog of sleep, I can gradually feel the injuries I incurred from last night's mission work their way up my body. As I shift in my bed sheets, I can immediately tell there must be a ghastly bruise on back and probably on the side of my head. I want to escape into the black haze of unconsciousness but instead a coughing fit forces me to sit upright in bed.

I don't know who's more startled, Youji or me, as he practically leaps out of the chair by my bed, "Aya! Are you ok?"

I shove him off me as he tries to plant two solid hands on my shoulders. When I finally catch my breath I manage to choke, "Yes, I'm fine." But I'm not. My voice only comes out in a horrible, hoarse whisper and the pain in my back is suddenly made all the more apparent when I try to speak. I weakly lean back on my pillows only to notice a bandage around Youji's arm as well. "You're injured?"

He glances at the white dressing, from the looks of it Omi's doing, and nods, "Yeah but it's nothing. How are you doing? You've been out for a whole day."

"A day?" I repeat dumbly. But that's impossible.

He sits back down on the hard wood chair, "Yeah." He rubs the back of his head awkwardly, "I was worried about you."

"I'm fine." I say but in fact, I'm a little stunned that I could be out for twenty-four hours and not realize it.

"I'll get you some water. Or maybe tea?" Youji offers as he stands up. His demeanor has lost all of its usual arrogance and insouciance. He looks concerned and rather tired. Instead of his usually outlandish couture, he's wearing a sloppy green sweater that still perfectly matches those piercing eyes and a pair of faded jeans. I can feel the warmth return to my extremities and I quickly look away before he notices that I'm staring at him.

"Water. Please." I say it mostly just to get rid of him. My bedroom door shuts behind him with a soft click and I rake my hand through matted hair. I probably need a shower but I feel too sore and weak to stand up. Instead I let my mind wander to last night, or rather the night before, and the way Youji held on to me, even in the car. The last thing I remember is the look of fear on his face before I blacked out.

A blonde head pokes through my bedroom door; only this time it's Omi. When he sees that I'm awake he smiles, "Aya-kun! Mind if I come in?"

I nod halfheartedly.

He patters into my room in slippered feet and takes a seat on Youji's chair, "How are you feeling?"

I reply softly, "I've been better."

"You sound horrible," he frets, "Youji was here all day and all night. He was really worried about you."

I can feel a low flush rise to my cheeks and I hope Omi doesn't notice. I try to sound nonchalant when I say, "Oh?"

He nods, "I think he felt responsible or something. He went after you when you took too long to get back after eliminating the target."

"Yeah, I was ambushed."

"Well, we can discuss the details of the mission later. You need to get some rest. Do you want something to eat?"

I shake my head. He's hesitant to leave and only does so when sees Youji arrive with a glass of water and some cold medication. He smiles before he's out the door, "You're in good hands Aya-kun. Get well soon!"

"He will Omittchi," Youji replies for me. Then he turns to face me. "Ok Aya, take two of these," he waves the NyQuil in front of me, "and you better drink a lot of water."

"I don't need a nurse. I just need some rest," I glare at him.

He sits down anyway and hands me two pills. "Go ahead. It'll help you sleep."

Before I stop to think about it, I comply. I sigh as I stare at the ceiling. I hate being sick.

Youji suddenly blurts out, "I won't get bored."

I don't bother to glance over at him. I know exactly what he's referring to and I refuse let that show. "Get bored of what?"

He scoots his chair closer to the bed and says, "You know what."

I don't say anything and eventually he has to break the pause. "Of you," he adds softly.

This time I do look at him and say, "What the hell are you talking about?"

With his uninjured arm, he reaches over and gently brushes my bangs out of my eyes. I flinch slightly but I don't pull away. For once he doesn't say anything and decides to let his actions speak for him. Before I can stop him his lips brush against mine, only this time the kiss is less hasty, less awkward and instead of being paralyzed I respond ever so slightly. Renewed with this encouragement he takes it a step further and allows a soft tongue to sneak into my mouth. He's on my bed now, leaning over me and too weak, too tired to fight back I just go along with it. Eventually he pulls away, a look in his eyes I've never seen before, that I can't quite place. I suddenly feel out of breath and shaky. My face is hot and I quickly look away from him and concentrate instead on the lint that's collected on my bed spread.

"Aya?"

I say nothing.

"Aya!"

I finally turn my head towards him, afraid that the look on my face is a betrayal to my usually stoic mask.

"Honestly, this is a huge cliché but when I thought I might lose you I didn't know what to do with myself. I was a complete wreck. I hated it."

"I think I know the feeling," my response is barely audible and he just continues.

"Just… let me sit with you today. I can bring you something to eat if you want."

"I'm not hungry."

"Ok then. Let me stay here. Please."

I nod slightly but instead of sitting back in the chair, he pulls the covers down and gets into bed with me. "What do you think you're doing?" I ask.

He throws me sly grin and says, "Ayan, that chair is so uncomfortable."

I raise an eyebrow and say, "_That's_ your excuse?"

"…And I'm sticking to it."

I stiffen slightly as he curls up next to me. A part of me is afraid to move. The whole situation strikes me as so laughably awkward, all I can do to avoid his piercing gaze is rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. I'm asleep before I notice that he has me in a firm embrace.


	8. Epilogue

Disclaimer: I don't own Weiss, I just like to play with them once in a while. My work is always pro bono.

_Youji_

I'm on the couch downstairs and, frankly, I feel like shit. All I'm wearing is a pair of boxers and a rumpled bathrobe. I'm trapped in a sea of discarded tissues and rented DVDs, a few empty cups of tea scattered here and there. I fight the onslaught of a coughing fit as I continue to listlessly channel surf. There is nothing worse than day time TV. The next worse contender, who I've recently become well acquainted with, is late night TV but at least I might catch some soft porn on the off chance.

I'm slightly startled by two strong hands on my shoulders, gently massaging my sore muscles. I can feel Aya's hot, moist breath against my ear as he whispers, "How are you feeling?"

I lean my head back to look up at him and his ever-so-faint smile, "Shitty."

I smile to myself. So, I may have caught his cold but it was damn worth it. Since the Yamada mission, we haven't really talked about the sudden shift in our relationship. I think that, for now, I prefer it that way. Some things are just too delicate to be spoken of.

He lightly kisses my forehead and says, "I'll be back with some soup later. I have to get back to the store."

Before I can respond he's gone but somehow his warmth still lingers.


End file.
